


War and Peace

by McWriter



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, The Avengers (2012) Compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-06-29 23:27:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19840744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McWriter/pseuds/McWriter
Summary: God’s Righteous Man falls slowly, agonizingly, irreversibly in love with The Devil’s Apprentice.





	1. The Avengers

The first time Steve’s breath hitches, the city of New York is a battlefield. Aliens charging through a gaping, ominous hole in the sky, Captain America fighting another war, alongside a brand-new team he isn’t quite sure is his.

“Yeah. It’s going to be fun,” she says.

Steve feels his heart clench in his chest as Natasha tosses aside the alien spear, turning her attention to make the jump. He readies his shield in waiting for her. She makes her move and he plays his part, boosting her up to the passing Chitauri vehicle. For the small moment after, the world seems to slow down. He watches, half in fear, as she clambers on, willing himself to trust her abilities and not run after her.

Steve is a changed man. And not just from pre-serum Steve Rogers. 

New York is something else. But it isn’t really the fighting itself that phases him, he has been in a world war after all. He is used to having explosions playing in the background, being punched and kicked and thrown away, sweeping the battlefield trying to perfect their tactics every minute. It is more that there are people, powerless civilians caught in the conflict, he can see them out of the corner of his eyes, hear them in the distance, shouting their last screams before their death. His team, that he isn’t sure is his own, and isn’t sure how long they will be a team. It’s the same as the war he pretends is his, but it’s also so much different.

After the mess, he is half-asleep in his chair, and he hears footsteps walking towards him. He knows it’s her before she walks into sight, doesn’t know why he knows that.

“Hey, can we drop you somewhere?” Natasha asks, and he considers it. Then he sees Clint making small talk to Thor in the other room, and he stops considering it.

“Clint doesn’t mind,” she says with a smile, and of course she notices his doubt. Her smile is the one he remembers from the battlefield. And this time, he smiles back, shakes his head, and says he has his own ride.

Her smile droops just a hint, or maybe he’s imagining it. She nods in understanding, and she says, “we’ll keep in touch,” lightly places a hand on his shoulder. And then she leaves.

The dust from the Battle of New York is beginning to settle, and the avengers go their separate ways. 

Tony and Bruce go back to science and technology and things Steve really needs to learn more about. Thor returns to Asgard, his impenitent brother in tow. Natasha and Clint – he guesses they have Shield. As for Steve, he sticks to his lackluster little life, on his own.

Until one fine day, he finds Natasha in his living room.

“Morning, Captain Rogers,” she says as he walks in, not looking up from where she’s seated on his couch, staring at her phone.

Steve should be surprised, or annoyed, but he doesn’t know what he’s feeling. Natasha casually reaches for a cup of must be coffee, takes a light sip, places the cup back on the table. He notices her jacket draped on one arm of the couch, and finally hears his radio playing.

“How did you get in?” he asks, and almost wishes he can take it back, because she grins widely to herself, then looks to him, still holding that smile.

“I don’t think that’s the right question, Captain,” she says, and gestures to the adjacent couch. She waits, and Steve waits. And when nothing happens, he gives up and takes the seat.

“I would ask if you wanted something to drink, but I see you’ve made yourself at home,” he says, and her smile doesn’t change.

“The question, Captain, is why am I here.”

“Why are you here?”

“Definitely not for coffee,” she says, and Steve doesn’t know why that disappoints him, but he doesn’t let it show.

“Fury,” he says, almost instinctively. She nods, and her expression changes to business.

She takes out a computer… thing, doesn’t wait for his approval before starting the debriefing.

It’s been a while since New York, since Steve has heard a whisper of the avengers or of Shield. Except, of course, the pages in the papers he glosses over, or the visuals on the screens he tries to skip. Those are mere echoes. Seeing Natasha is the real thing. He isn’t exactly complaining at the lack of activity, but it’s nice to know he’s needed, it’s nice to have something to do. 

When she’s done, she asks if he has questions, and he almost wishes she was there for coffee.

“We’re starting small,” she says, since he doesn’t reply.

“We?” Steve asks, a bit too fast.

“You and me, Cap,” she says. Then, a small pause later, adds, “and about a dozen agents should we need them.”

That’s how it starts. Small.

Steve keeps up his training because he needs to. Natasha joins him, sometimes. Steve wonders if Fury specifically assigned Natasha to him, is too hesitant to ask, isn’t sure he wants to know. Because if she is, that means she’s not hanging around because she wants to. If she’s not, she’s hanging around because she wants to. Steve’s not sure which he prefers. Not yet.

Amid the missions, and the briefings, and the training themselves to exhaustion, Natasha becomes the ambassador for the new world. He’s almost certain it’s not a thing Fury asked her to do. Almost.

During missions and debriefings and training themselves to exhaustion, she’s as professional as can be. When it’s just them, she almost seems like a different person. And maybe he’s imagining it, but she talks about everything and nothing, is almost friendly if he can call her that. Natasha is amazingly perceptive, and even when her jokes are his expense, she knows where to draw the line. She’s mellow when he needs her to be, lively when he’s feeling alive, mirrors his moods in a way that should feel unreal, but really, it just feels right.

They touch upon the past, carefully handling old memories that might break at the wrong touch. She takes him to the Smithsonian, and Steve tries his hardest not to dwell on what was, he really does. But the sight of his old uniform, the shield, his team that was truly his own, is unsettling. He’s an outsider now, as he watches the clips of the war. And when he tries to put himself back in his own shoes, he finds they don’t fit him as well. Peggy. And Bucky. Everything he has ever known, everyone he has ever known, gone, and their traces right there in front of him, a cruel reminder mocking his fate. It’s too much, too much and yet not enough at all. It’s never going to enough.

He is grateful when Natasha doesn’t prod him to talk about why he walked out of the musuem halfway through. When she lets him be, giving him space to breathe in whatever pieces of the war he has for however long he needs.

They take a walk in the park that evening. They walk side-by-side, in sync, the air between them rife with things that need saying, but neither can. She makes small-talk, still very perceptive of his emotions. Never pushing him more than he can go. She drives him back to his place, promising another adventure ready when he will be.

Black Widow isn’t his friend. No, they’re colleagues. But the kind of job where you’re constantly risking limb and life alongside and for each other tends to forge an inexplicable bond. But Steve is never sure about Natasha. She’s an enigma. That much is clear. And everytime he looks at her, he’s left wondering who he’s really looking at. Every time he thinks he has her figured out, he realizes there’s so much more to her than she let on. Steve learns fast. Learns the first thing about learning Natasha, is not to make assumptions.

Steve hasn’t failed to notice the arrow-shaped pendant she wears around her neck after New York, small and silver and no doubt in his mind what it meant or who it stood for. It shouldn’t bother him. And to be really fair, it doesn’t. Because it isn’t that they have it. It’s just that he doesn’t. The one time it does bother him, for a moment, his mind flahes back to the 40s, to Peggy, and he shuts out the thoughts before they bring back unwanted feelings. Of a different world, a different time. The echo of a dream he has to learn to let go. Because Steve Rogers isn’t out of time. No. He has far too much of it. Too much time and not enough to spend it on.

Steve has nowhere to go. So he sticks around with Shield. It’s him and Natasha, most missions, with a team he doesn’t bother getting to know beyond work. Not that he bothers with Natasha, she just seems to have that effect. He wants to find the perfect comeback for everything she throws at him, he wants to know what’s behind her unbreakable facade, he finds himself fascinated by who she pretends to be, and intrigued to know who she really is.

The facade might be unbreakable, but it can’t hide everything. Occasionally, when she’s feeling unlike herself, or perhaps more rightly, too much like herself, a little bit of the person behind the mask slips through. In between the relentless teasing and that stupid smirk, she smiles in a way he can’t quite understand, the kind that makes him want to reach out to her as though she’s doing the same. But then, she isn’t. She isn’t even looking at him a lot of the times, content with wistfully gazing out at the empty skies as the jet flies them towards a fight or away from it.

She never speaks about her past, and he dares not ask. He understand it, really. Their pasts are their own, to stuff in a dusty corner of their minds or lay it out in the open.

He finds a new meaning in building a present. A clean slate that he scrawls her name on, fills with details that are more Natasha than Agent Romanoff, draws her the way she looks when she makes his cheeks go flush.

Everything’s all right with the world.

Until his world comes crashing down.


	2. The Winter Soldier

Steve has Natasha pinned against the wall, and this is not how he imagined it will happen. Not that he’ll admit he imagined it will happen. She casually chews on her gum, exaggerating every bite for dramatic effect, and she’s taunting him. They both know she has the upper hand, and they both know she enjoys showing it off. Steve is wishing with every bit of hope he has left that she’s not on their side, whoever they might be. He needs her, wants her, to be on his side.

“Like you said, he’s a ghost story,” she says, and she’s holding up the drive Fury gave Steve. And really, he shouldn’t trust her, should he? Out of all the people, her?

“Well, let's find out what the ghost wants,” Steve says, taking it from her hand. His other hand is still holding her arm, but his grip weakens, and he is sorry, is conflicted about being sorry too. He’s not letting go, not stepping away, and she places her hand on his, and Steve comes out of his trance, swiftly moves his hand away. He’s still sorry, can’t bring himself to say it, can’t push her away either when she follows him out.

He walks fast and purposefully, until she catches up, tells him to alter his pace. He does so before he has a chance to doubt her motives. Can’t bring himself to distrust her. She had the upper hand. She handed it over to him. So unless that’s part of her plan, which isn’t all that unlikely, Steve is going to go with his gut. Steve is going to take the risk, because he doesn’t want to imagine the other option, where they’re on opposite sides. Wants to fight beside her, not against her.

“First rule of going on the run is, don’t run, walk.”

Steve takes her instructions, because he has made the leap. Whether she is who she says she is, he’ll find out. Till he does, he chooses to believe in the Natasha he knows. He follows Natasha through the mall crowd, until she finds a computer she wants.

“How many minutes?”

“About nine minutes from… now.” She plugs the drive in, and tries to read it. Steve adjusts his glasses, scans the room trying to appear inconspicuous. She digs for what they need, and the two start oout of the place.

The tac-team is hot on their trail, and Steve is now beginning to worry, because they’re in the middle of civilians he knows the tac-team won’t care about. Because he has Natasha with him, and he’s still fighting with himself to trust her.

“Shut up and put your arm around me, laugh at something I said,” she says.

“What?” Steve is too slow to understand her idea, and really, he’s still reeling from her comment about them getting married.

“Do it!” she says with enough urgency, that Steve just does so. The agent passes them by, not paying them any special attention, and Steve glances back briefly to make sure they aren’t really noticed.

They’re going down the escalator and Steve can almost feel the freedom of their escape. But he should know better than to celebrate too early.

“Kiss me,” she says, her face completely serious.

“What?” Steve isn’t against the idea. But he’s Steve Rogers. He should at least take her out to dinner first, shouldn’t he?

“Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable.”

“Yes, they do.” He takes a split second glance at her lips out of compulsion, and he’s about to question her instruction for once, when she steps closer, puts her hand behind his neck, and quickly pulls him down for a kiss. Steve is acting before he can think further. He places a hand on her waist, gently tugs her closer, places the other hand on hers where it’s resting on the railing, and he kisses her with as much delicacy as she does. He grips her hand tighter, and her nails are gently scratching the back of his head where his hairline ends, and then she pulls away too soon, leaving Steve aching and wanting.

“You still uncomfortable?” she asks, smirks, and turns away.

“It’s not exactly the word I would use.” He follows her, quickly runs his tongue over his lips where he can still taste her, strawberry bubblegum and all, gulps down his frustration.

The silence as they drive away is excruciating. Steve has to keep from licking his lips every few seconds, and Natasha is enjoying every second of watching his suffering. She has a smile on her face as she observes him drive, he’s straight-faced because he doesn’t know what else to do.

“All right,” she says, “I have a question for you, oh, which you do not have to answer. I feel like if you don't answer it though, you're kind of answering it, you know?”

“What?” Steve isn’t sure he wants to hear her question, because she hasn’t dropped the smile from her face.

“Was that your first kiss since 1945?” And it’s even worse than Steve’s thoughts.

“That bad, huh?” he says, smiles stiffly, can’t bring himself to answer the actual question.

“I didn't say that.”

“Well, it kind of sounds like that's what you're saying.”

“No, I didn't. I just wondered how much practice you've had.”

“You don't need practice.”

“Everybody needs practice.”

“It was not my first kiss since 1945,” he says, because Natasha always gets her answers, one way or another, and he’ll just give it to her. “I'm ninety-five, I'm not dead.”

“Nobody special, though?’ she asks, her smile growing.

Steve chuckles.

“Believe it or not, it's kind of hard to find someone with shared life experience,” he says, doesn’t dare take a glance at her, for fear she might see the truth in his eyes.

“Well, that's alright, you just make something up,” she says.

“What, like you?” he asks, looks at her after all for a small second. Because it’s her he wants to talk about.

“I don't know. The truth is a matter of circumstances, it's not all things to all people all the time. And neither am I.” The way she says it, makes Steve feel sorry for her, knows she will not want him to feel sorry for her, ever.

“That's a tough way to live,” he says, soft and serious. He’s sorry now.

“It's a good way not to die, though.” She brushes it off with a smile, and if she doesn’t want to talk about it, Steve won’t either.

“You know, it's kind of hard to trust someone when you don't know who that someone really is,” he says, because Shield is compromised and he has taken the leap and he needs her to be on his side.

“Yeah,” she admits. “Who do you want me to be?”

“How about a friend?” he suggests, and Natasha laughs softly. Steve is hopeful, grips the steering wheel tighter without realizing it.

“Well, there's a chance you might be in the wrong business, Rogers.” She doesn’t agree, doesn’t refuse. And Steve should be in as much of a dilemma as when they started the drive. He takes a glance at her, and she catches it, smiles at him before turning away to stare outside, her face calm and wistful, like he has seen her too many times, and Steve purposefully relaxes at the wheel. He has taken the leap, long ago now. And he knows he can’t go back, doesn’t know how he’ll live with himself if he has to go back.

Later, after realizing the dark truth of their employer, they’re taking a much-needed pause at Sam’s. Steve looks at himself in the mirror, sights Natasha lookin forlorn in the other room, sees her take a second look at him. He sighs, wipes his hands again for no reason, and walks to her.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she says; it’s exactly the reply Steve is expecting, and it almost makes him want to chuckle. But it also makes him hurt, because he’s hoping she’ll let him in now. Now, after they’ve lost nearly everything else. When each other is all they’ve got.

“What's going on?” he prods her, hopeful.

“When I first joined SHIELD, I thought I was going straight. But I guess I just traded in the KGB for HYDRA. I thought I knew whose lies I was telling, but… I guess I can't tell the difference anymore.” 

“There's a chance you might be in the wrong business.” Natasha smiles faintly.

“I owe you,” she says, soft and serious.

“It's okay.” Because it is.

If it was the other way around, and it was down to me to save your life, and you be honest with me, would you trust me to do it?” She looks at him, her eyes so naked and vulnerable for a second, it scares him.

“I would now,” he says, because it’s her, and because he has stopped the doubting and the second-guessing. He sees the desperation in her eyes, and knows this is as close as he can come to reading her against her will. “And I'm always honest,” he adds, smiles.

She nods lightly, smiles, leans back.

It’s easier to fight when you know who’s on your side. And who’s not. And it easier to fight knowing Natasha is. Shield falls, and so does Hydra. Hopefully, the rest of the Hydra rats will as well, with time. Steve is purposeless again.

“Not going with him?” he asks Natasha, because he doesn’t want her to.

“No.”

“Not staying here?” he asks, because he needs her to.

“I blew all my covers,” she says. “I gotta go figure out a new one.”

“That might take a while.”

“I'm counting on it,” she says, smiles. “That thing you asked for, I called in a few favors from Kiev.” She hands him a file, and he looks at its covers.

“Will you do me a favor?” she says, and Steve looks up. “Call that nurse,” she says.

“She's not a nurse.” He smiles.

“And you're not a SHIELD agent.”

“What was her name again?” Because Steve hasn’t been paying attention, doesn’t want to.

“Sharon. She's nice.” She smiles, leans closer, then kisses him on the cheek, leaves his heart racing, and turns to walk away. “Be careful, Steve. You might not want to pull on that thread.”

As Natasha walks away, Steve opens the file.

“You're going after him?” Sam asks him.

“You don't have to come with me,” Steve says.

“I know. When do we start?”

Steve doesn’t answer, looks up at Natasha walking away. Looks back at the file, at Bucky. And back at her as she walks away.

“You’re not going to call the nurse,” Sam says, and Steve turns to the file. It's not because he’s not sure, but because she’s not.


	3. Age of Ultron

Maybe he’s old-fashioned after all. Because it’s late, even by his standards, and he should be asleep.

He pushes the blanket away from him, stabs at it with his legs until it’s a jumbled bunch devoid of form and function. Something about the weight suffocating him. He gets up from the bed, is greeted with darkness as he looks around the room. It’s late. He considers the TV for a moment. Not that he watches TV much anyway. The dead silence of the room is disconcerting and he throws himself back on the bed.

Because it is haunting him. Not how Natasha’s unbelievably soft lips felt on his. Not the way she didn’t even hesitate. Not how close they were, not how her hands felt on his neck. No, what’s haunting him is how readily he kissed her back. What’s haunting him is the deafening emptiness in his ears as the rest of the world seemed to drown out for that brief moment. How terrifying and intense it was. How he felt the moment she pulled back.

He isn’t trying to relive those seconds. He isn’t trying to stifle it out of his mind either. But it’s there, like a broken record playing the same song over and over until he knows the ins and outs of it.

He takes a deep breath, sighs to himself, and forces his eyes shut. They haven’t talked about it since her quip during their escape. It’s not like he can just bring it up. And why will he? Their lives were on the line. She did, they did, whatever needed doing. And she has probably long forgotten the incident. 

He reaches for the music player Natasha gifted him, and stays awake listening to songs he doesn’t recognize, at least until Natasha’s devilish charms carry him off into a dreamworld that is far too simple, far too realistic for comfort.

But it’s not the kiss, is it? He wants to blame her. If she hadn’t been so… her. But it isn’t her fault. Somewhere between the gunshots and explosions, and the whole dilemma of what the avengers really are, Natasha has come to mean so much more to him. Much more than he’s willing to admit. Even to himself.

The avengers don’t need Shield. The Stark tower in New York becomes the Avengers tower. The team get back together. Their mission isn’t over. Hydra is still at large. The world is still as much of a mess as it was when they started. So they take it upon themselves to right those wrongs. And then some other. Like they owe the world anything at all. But maybe, that’s how they feel. The years of guilt weighing down on their shoulders, smothering every breath, constraining every beat of the heart. Stark and his legacy. Steve and his war. Banner and the other guy. Thor and his brawls. Clint and his targets. And Natasha. Natasha and a lifetime of mystery concealed behind the steely gaze of her eyes.

It’s a Wednesday. The avengers are back mid-day after tearing apart another one of Hydra’s hideouts. A regular outing, no surprises. 

It’s late. The team have all gone back to their little bubbles. New York City is humming along as it always does. It’s one of those things that Steve thinks he can never quite get used to. He looks out at the ocean of lights below him, a thin sheet of extra-hard glass separating him from the chilly air outside. 

“What’s keeping you up past your bedtime?” 

Steve turns to the familiar voice. Natasha is standing by the door, her hands tucked into the pouch of her hoodie. Even in the dimly lit room, Steve can discern the light smirk playing on her lips.

“I could ask you the same,” he says, and turns back to the window.

Natasha walks over softly, her steps not making a single sound in the silent night, and she sits down on the couch beside him. He doesn’t look away from the window, but he can feel her eyes on him, and he knows she’s trying to read him. She doesn’t say anything for quite a while, leaning back on the couch to join him in gazing outside. He’s beginning to forget she’s even around, when, “You okay?” she asks, and Steve looks at her.

Her expression is guarded, not exactly empty, but a little blank. It makes him want to ask her the same question. Steve shrugs instead, turns his gaze back to the city. She looks at him carefully, like she’s not convinced with his reaction, and Steve shifts in his seat because he knows it. There’s a time for everything. And Natasha, perceptive as she is, knows now is not the time to push him on whatever is on his mind. 

“You dance?” she asks then.

“What?” Steve is still trying to catch up with the sudden change in topic. 

“Hey, Jarvis. Can you play us something? Surprise me,” she says, and Jarvis nearly immediately starts a song Steve doesn’t recognize. He looks at the hand she’s holding out for him.

“I – I don’t know,” Steve says, struggling to get the words out. “I haven’t danced in a long time, and – we might wake the others,” he adds, and she chuckles.

“Really, Rogers? That’s your excuse?” That is his excuse, because he can’t come up with anything better if she suddenly asks him to dance out of nowhere. He smiles nervously, trying hard to find a way to back it up, and hoping the dim lighting would keep her from seeing the color rising on his cheeks. 

“I’m willing to overlook your poor dancing skills, and no-one outside this room can hear us,” she says, and Steve is still hesitating. Natasha smiles, so soft and easy, Steve feels his heart leap for a split second.

“Come on, Cap. The song won’t last forever.” She’s already up, waiting for him to take her hand and lead her out to the open floor. And in a moment of courage overpowering his hesitation, he does exactly that.

They dance, and Natasha is terribly good at it. Not that it surprises Steve, she seems to be good at practically anything and everything. He fumbles more than he wants to, but she doesn’t mention it, so he doesn’t mind. And he thinks she really is enjoying herself. So he tries to do the same.

Steve’s photographic memory isn’t just good for mapping directions or remembering faces. It’s also helpful in remembering the way Natasha’s nose scrunches up just a hint when Clint gets on her nerves. It captures the way she bites back a smirk when she’s teasing Steve, betrayed by the twitch of a cheek when he starts blushing. It remembers the way her gaze focuses and her face changes when they’re knee-deep in a mission. It cements the rare times she smiles so soft in a way that only someone who has smiled rough can. It captures her in a way Steve is certain his sketches never can.

And under the dim light of the room, Steve let’s himself be captivated by her. Lets himself believe, lets himself live. Traces her smile on the canvas of his mind, writes her name over and over until the rest of the world is fading out.

She lets him lead, but really it’s him following her. Her face is calm and content, and Steve is going to take her at face-value. He has come to know Natasha as more than a Shield agent. She’s a friend. And a damn good one too. Even if it is hard to figure out what exactly is going on in her head most times, he knows her well. And yet, she still surprises him. He still wants to know more.

The music slows in tempo gradually, and the two are now moving to a slow rhythm. She has rested her head lightly on his chest, and he is acutely aware of how close they are. 

But she’s right. The song won’t last forever. 

They hold on for a brief moment after the last notes fade away. Steve steps back as she removes her hand from his shoulder. She still has that easy smile on her face, and Steve mirrors her calm. 

“You weren’t too bad, although I do think there are certain areas for improvement,” she says, her smile widening and her voice taking on a mock serious tone.

“I’ll make sure to get in some practice before next time,” he says.

“I look forward to it.” Steve suddenly realizes he said next time, can’t bring himself to counter it, not that he wants to anyway. “Get some sleep, Steve,” she says, gives his hand a gentle squeeze, then turns back to soundlessly leave the room.

And to his small surprise, there is a next time. In fact, there are several next times. Steve doesn’t know who took initiative after that one night. It doesn’t matter. He has something to look forward to after long missions. On empty nights. And when they don’t dance, they sit in each other’s silence. And when they don’t sit in each other’s silence, they talk, about nothing and everything, Natasha makes up way too many inside jokes at his expense. Steve doesn’t mind. And she always, always gives his hand a little squeeze before she leaves, never says goodnight; and he’s always crafting forbidden dreams as he watches her go.

She seems to understand him much more than the other way around. Dancing becomes an outlet for him, an escape even; it’s easier not to worry about what Hydra is up-to, or where his best friend is. He can focus on the song in his ears instead of the echo of gunshots, breathe in her scent instead of the vile trace of blood and metal, and hold Nat close instead of his shield.

Things start to fall into place again. But Steve should know better. Should know by now not to take things for granted.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. If you made it all the way here, please take the time to leave a nice comment.
> 
> \- McWriter


End file.
